


We Are But Stories

by TricksterShi



Series: The Pie Bitch 'Verse [9]
Category: Original Work, Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-13
Updated: 2013-05-13
Packaged: 2017-12-11 18:19:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/801710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TricksterShi/pseuds/TricksterShi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grandmother watches through the weaving.  For a while, the Story is uninterrupted.  Father raises Brothers on a motel bed made from the bones of their mother’s memory.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Are But Stories

All of life is nothing but a story. Grandmother knows this better than most, even among those that stood beside her at the beginning when spark lit dark and Life opened eyes full of wonder and growing things. Grandmother drifts among the darkened corners of the universe, her silken threads running thin and deep throughout the All, and watches with her many eyes as the Story unfolds.

For a long time it is a mess- the Peoples are scattered and alone, her brothers and sisters, so much younger than she, fight and squabble as they grow. Blood spills over the hills and forms the great waters. Hopes and fears and passion burn hot in their veins. They crash upon each other as waves, breaking apart and coming together once more, each fighting for their place in the hearts and minds of the Peoples. 

Grandmother does not partake in these childish displays; she was already old before Life began.

Grandmother watches and weaves. The Great Story takes form in her web and spans the spaces between the stars, invisible pages that drift as foam at the lips of the shore, gently brushing soft kisses and whispering secrets to those that close their eyes and listen. 

Coyote appears in her home one day, a toothy smile cut across his face and old blood on his chin.

“How do the threads sing today, Grandmother?”

“Sweetly,” she says, just as she says every time he comes. 

“Do you see the end yet?”

“No, only the horizon.”

Coyote laughs, shakes his fur, and leaves her again. He is still young compared to her, but then, only Death can pose a real contest of age for Grandmother. Coyote understands the Great Story, though, for all his short years. Grandmother watches through the weaving. For a while, the Story is uninterrupted. Father raises Brothers on a motel bed made from the bones of their mother’s memory. Brothers travel a road red and muddy, disappearing among fields of twisted weeds where teeth and darkness nip at their heels. Brother Younger turns from the road towards the promise of the well traveled path; Brother Elder watches from afar with hurt in his heart and grave dirt clinging to his boots. Father leaves both, turning both eyes to Hell and carrying gunpowder thick on his tongue. 

Coyote sees the threads spreading out. Coyote sees and tangles them with a laugh and biting grin.

The pattern’s change, but Grandmother does not mind. The Story, after all, is never still and never set. 

More threads appear and she draws them in, twisting here, tugging there, crossing lines and borders and worlds.

Heaven gathers in counsel, their voices raised in fury laced confusion while Hell roars with rust falling from its breath to amass at the cracks and poke its fingers through.   
The horizon is ebbing and flowing like the sea, overtaking a bit more of the sand with each teasing kiss. Grandmother sees shapes emerge, she sees some events rearrange and others shrink to nothingness. Darkness and red bleed through the strands, that is the only thing that doesn’t change. 

Others long asleep open their eyes and draw closer to the Brothers. Some know it, some do not, but it is very interesting, very interesting indeed.

This story is not the biggest story Grandmother has ever woven, it is not even the first of its kind. She twists the threads through her fingers and lays them down beside the others. 

The horizon is coming towards them and the future is still half shadowed like a darkened road at midnight when the moon has turned her face away to leave twin headlights to cut a swathe through the dim.

Grandmother smiles down at the web and keeps her fingers working.


End file.
